


Comportment

by aria0205



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Impact Play, Mostly porn, Mutant Issues, Pegging, Porn With Plot, but not that much plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 00:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8599285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria0205/pseuds/aria0205
Summary: A case involving dead mutant kids has Cassandra reeling. In the midst of it all, she and her partner reach an agreement of sorts. Of course it's all going to hit the fan.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Totally based on the movie, so it's going to be super AU. Also shameless id-fic!

Like all these things, she doesn't know quite how they start happening. Cassandra thinks maybe it's some human need to reach out. 

It was after the torture of the girls in Sector 4. 

Strung up like animals. It could have been any sector. The perp was not there, by the time the got there, maybe he had been gone before then, days before. They happened on it. Just got there, called it, and had forensics do their job. Cassandra intuits they’re mutants just like her, she would have tried to find more, but their minds are a mess and forensics wanted to rush them out. 

Next, they walked in on some kids attempting to start a block war. That was better.

The punks shot up her Lawmaster, so Dredd gave her a ride home. She doesn't expect him to come up with her, but tries not to show her surprise. Section 4 is not too far from where she lives.

The girls couldn’t have been more than eleven years old. Thin and gangly, definitely runaways of some sort. The database couldn’t identify them. Tomorrow, there’d be answers, she tells herself as she strides into her quarters. 

There's not much to the living space assigned by the Justice Department got for her. As a rookie judge, it’s more like a box or a glorified cell. There's a sink in the corner. Her bed –-cot more like it--takes up most of the room. The bathroom is on the opposite corner. The tiny size makes it easy to keep clean and organized. It's better than most of the places Cassandra has lived at.

The dim light makes Dredd into an impossibly large shadowy figure-- the stuff of nightmares. Not her nightmares though.

Cassandra still feels coiled up, decentered. Shaken. It’s not the worst she has seen. Not by a long shot. Answers tomorrow.

And then it’s a moment of stupidity, recklessness, because there’s too much noise in her head.

Cassandra reaches up to Dredd’s helmet. She isn't surprised when he catches her hand. In retrospect, she’s more surprised that she dared. Like all of the rookies, she’s read _Dredd’s Comportment_.

She lets her hand fall.

\--

The results confirm it the next day. The girls are mutants, but there’s no trace of them anywhere in Sector 4. If their bodies weren’t at medical, it’d be hard to believe they exist.

“Could be illegal entries to Mega-City,” Dredd says when they gather to look at the reports in the Hall.

Cassandra supposes they could, most of the mutant population outside the walls would do anything to get in. Maybe the parents called in a few favors.

Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they found a way to trick the scan somehow. Either way they won’t know until they talk to them and the girls won’t be in any condition to talk until much later. Induced coma, the medics had said.

Dredd doesn’t mention her faux pas—not then, not after. But Cassandra thinks about it. And in retrospect, it was a foolish thing to do, but she’s not sure she could have acted any differently. 

The celibacy stuff was pushed onto them in the Academy. It was grounds for dismissal, so either you followed it or hid it well. Cassandra was different enough, that she thought she’d be one of the ones to follow it. Not for lack of interest, just because everyone else was disgusted at the thought of fucking a mutant. That was before she knew. Fucking a mutant was okay. It was everything else that was the problem.

It wasn’t who she thought it’d be. Cadet Edna Patel hadn’t lasted long in the Academy.

By then she’d been ten years in the academy. The class had shrunk and she was Cadet Cassandra Anderson more than she was that mutant. It was easy enough to blow off the vows of celibacy as something from another time…just as long as you kept it quiet.

She thought if she made it out of the Academy that maybe she could work out something with her partner. She never counted on her partner being Dredd.

Judge Dredd, implacable, unmovable, who’d miraculously passed her when she was certain she’d never step foot again in the Hall. She’d never asked.

She appreciates his knowledge of the law, his efficiency, and admires his success.

But at night she feels like she's crawling out of her own skin.

\--

It’s Sector 2 some weeks later, the boy is younger and seemingly has little in common with the two girls brutally assaulted. He’s not alive by the time they get to him. Probably died the day before. 

Cassandra closes his open eyes, afterimages slide into her head. Nothing usable, it’s to jumbled up and fearful for that. There is one thing.

“Mutant,” she says.

Dredd is checking for the boy’s identity. “Unknown,” he says.

Cassandra stands up slowly. “I’ll call the meat wagon.”

She wants to mention the girls again, but there’s no point until they get the facts. Dredd is nothing but exacting in that regard. She feels the weight of his gaze through his helmet and wonders if she’s that transparent.

No one needs a reason to kill mutants. 

After her shift ends and she crawls into her cot, she closes her eyes and pretends she doesn’t see the bloodied faces of the girls and the boy.

\--

The results come back surprisingly fast. The Justice Department is nothing if not efficient in how they manage death.

“Another unindentified subject,” Cassandra says, looking at the file. “Three illegal entries in two weeks isn’t implausible, I suppose.”

“Sector 2 is too far from the checkpoint. It wouldn’t be easy for a child,” Dredd replies.

Cassandra wonders if he’s testing her. “Chances are he wasn’t traveling alone. Someone got him in. Maybe the same person that killed him.” She flips through the pages. “The wounds are similar to the girls and they’re similarly unidentified.”

“That was in Sector 4.”

“So it’s someone mobile.”

“There’s not enough here for a connection,” Dredd says.

She stays silent.

\--

Things come to a head a couple of weeks later. It’s late and she thinks maybe too much killing, too much death and the banality of cataloging it all has made her reckless.

“You ever think about that celibacy thing?” she blurts out.

He doesn’t look up from the paperwork. They're at his place and it's actually her report he's looking over. “If it’s difficult for you there’s other means.”

“I’m not putting any of that synthetic stuff in my system,” she retorts. It’s not just preference. Anything that dampens her abilities is a point blank no.

“Then you don’t have much of a choice.” He continues as if she’s talking about technicalities, abstract concepts. His eyes never leave the sheet in front of him on the nondescript coffee table. “There’s no room for anything outside the Law.”

“And I understand that—for a relationship," she continues. " But a biological imperative is not a relationship. It’s instinct.”

“If you feel strongly about it then take it up with the Council,” he says with a note of finality.

She doesn’t know what moves her. Cassandra sits beside him on the sofa and lets her hand drop to his inner thigh. His hand covers hers and pulls it away, but she felt the jump of muscle under the clothing just before it did.

“I’m not making a political critique.”

“This is inappropriate.” Dredd’s still grasping her hand firmly.

“If you report it. If you don’t, it just is.”

“That’s not how it works.” He releases her hand and finally look up from the paperwork. “And you know it. Re-do section eighteen. It’s too sloppy.”

She gets up, grabs the paperwork, and leaves. She supposes he’ll report her. It was a good run, she thinks. And besides, how many times has she come close to getting kicked out?

\--

He doesn’t report her.

Cassandra waits for it for a full week and nothing. Patrols go as usual, Mega City cannibalizing itself from within.

She hasn’t said, hasn’t _done_ anything more. And of course, she could read him, but that’s already understood between them that it is line she can never cross.

She waits. Maybe, he’ll simply stop looking over her paperwork, too risky. But he doesn’t. They’re at Cassandra's place and she sits beside him, mind turning over and over as his eyes scan her reports.

Maybe, he thinks she’s dully chastened. That bothers her.

Finally, he shuffles the stack and stands. She can’t help but feel as if he’s claiming her space, almost daring her to be reckless, as if he’s sure she wouldn’t be. Because she knows better.

Dredd’s at her door and she thinks she’ll lose her courage.

“Wait,” she says. He turns around and she kisses him.

It’s not much of a kiss. He's holding his helmet so that it's in the way and her teeth click against his. She doesn’t dare deepen the kiss.

And then it's a flurry of activity. The papers rustle as they fall, he backs her to the wall of the opposite corner behind the front door. The light switch is beside her, she registers just as he hits it, and the room goes dark. The red traffic lights glimmer faintly from outside her window, as the only illumination. His helmet falls. 

His heat is all she can feel, and it's as if she's just woken from a daze, she fumbles with the fastenings of his pants. He's quicker and she feels the slide of her own pants, cooler air at her thighs. One hand is at her hip, the other dips under the elastic of her underwear and the frenzied movements of her hands still momentarily.

Cassandra doesn’t know what she'd expected, a perfunctory touch maybe? But it doesn't feel like that. It feels like teasing, an oblique touch, fingers skittering just so across her clit, making her hips jerk and her breath hitch. She gathers herself together enough to push down his pants and underwear, runs her hands along his length.

He lifts her easily and she gains some leverage from his shoulders, the leather hot under her arms. The angle is not comfortable, and she grits her teeth when he enters her. But it's good nonetheless in ways she can't parse. Something about the stretch and the burn, the smell of sweat and leather, Dredd's uneven breathing, the scratch of his stubble against her cheek. 

Cassandra stifles the impulse to kiss him again. She intuits that's not part of this. Not right now. It's not sentiment that moves her, she just wants to taste him. She settles for licking at his neck, salt flaring on her tongue. He grunts in response, hips stilling, the grip on her hips bordering on painful as he comes. Dredd withdraws soon after.

She fumbles with her clothes, then goes to grab the fallen paperwork, pushing at him wordlessly before he walks out. Later while showering, she catalogues the soreness in her body. It feels like winning an argument.

Dredd hadn't asked about prophylactics, she thinks and her smile wavers a little, the knowledge breaking her sense of well being. He probably knows that she's sterile like any good mutant.

Good. Makes things less awkward, she tells herself and turns on the shower.

\--

It goes like that. At first she thinks maybe it’s just a one-time thing. Scratch the itch and it goes away. A couple of weeks pass that way. Cassandra is determined to let it be for a while, but it does make her wonder when he looks over her shoulder as she signs the reports, breath faintly at her nape.

And then one night Dredd stands up from his couch and hits the light switch. She’s surprised, but it's his mouth on hers that commands her attention. He kisses like him, hard, almost bruising, but it’s Cassandra that flickers her tongue against his. They’re both breathless when he pulls away.

She gives him a slight shove so that he's sitting and she straddles his lap. She kisses him frenziedly, pressing himself against him like a cat in heat. It’s clear to her she was hoping, the rest was all pretense. Nothing takes the edge of all the ugly she feels on a daily basis like this.

His hand inches under her shirt-- she’d left her jacket at a nearby table—and he’s cupping her right breast with callused hands. Cassandra pulls away to suck in a breath. In the back of her mind, she's wondering why she's so turned on--the unexpectedness of it? That _Dredd_ would be the one to seek her out? Cassandra pulls off the shirt. His stubble scratches her collarbone, the side of her breast as his mouth closes on it. She means to let out a breath, but it comes out as a whine. His other hand slides over her left breast. 

Cassandra pulls at his jacket and he puts some distance between them to take that and his shirt off. Cassandra splays her hands at his side. She doesn't need light to see the pattern of his scars when she can feel them. There's a slight smoothness to them she finds idly interesting. But then Dredd's shifting to the side, pushing her to her back. She acquiesces, feeling his thumbs hook on her pants and pull down. She helps him by kicking them off and her damp underwear goes next.

He must have gotten his own pants off then, because her legs brush against his and he's inside her in one fluid thrust that makes her toes curl, heels digging into the cushions. She meets him thrust for thrust, wrapping her left leg around his waist, fingers digging into his back. It's hard to think of him as Dredd, her partner. Judge Dredd impartial dispatcher of justice.

No, this is just a man, she thinks between scattered breaths, a man between her legs. Inside of her. Maybe something she'd dreamed up. She reaches a hand between her legs, already _there_ , and a cry chokes in her throat when the orgasm hits her, every muscle in her body clenching. His own breathing gets increasingly ragged, and he comes later, his forehead moist against the crook of her neck.

Dredd slides off her and she briefly flirts with the idea of staying where she is. She feels boneless and lethargic, but there's implicit rules to this and she’s no beginner. She stands up with shaky legs and picks up her clothes.

\--

Several more weeks pass like that in tacit understanding. Once a week they’d fuck after shift, sometimes at her place, mostly at his. Work continues as always, but Cassandra hadn’t expected anything else. The arrangement was more than she’d hoped. It might have been bizarre for some other person-- all the cloak and dagger. The way Dredd hit the lights like some prude, the curt exits, but Cassandra liked them. It made the arrangement uncomplicated. 

Sometimes, she wondered what was in it for Dredd, but then she shook herself. Fucking was fucking and she was willing, disease free, and worthy of trust. The decision made itself. Dredd might be uptight, but he was still a man and she hadn’t known of one yet who’d refuse a fuck under those conditions.

\--

And she knew she should have been satisfied with it as it stood. But the girls haven't woken and they found another dead girl. Section 2 again. And while Dredd's sucking on her tongue, two of his fingers fucking into her almost lazily, she somehow has the presence of mind to pull away, because she can still see the dead girl's afterimages as if they're burned into her eyelids.

“Wait a second,” she says a bit hoarsely.

She slides off the couch, rummaging under it for the small pencil-sized case she’d put in her jacket earlier in the week. Finally, Cassandra locates it and pulls it out. It’s a standard issue weapon, just not one they use with any frequency.

“What’s this?” 

“An electrorod,” she says. "Take a look."

He hesitates, but humors her, snapping the rod. The baton goes from pencil-sized to about a foot and a half.

“The on/off is at the bottom,” she continues matter-of-factly. “Start with the low setting and we can work up.”

“You want me to use this on you.” His tone is even, but by now she can read some surprise underneath.

“That’s the point, yes. The mechanics are just like a nightstick except with an electric charge.” Cassandra reaches up between his legs, his breath catches and she finds him still hard. Good.

She climbs back on the couch and shifts forward, ass up. There’s a tension in her belly she hasn’t felt in years sensitizing her nerves. He doesn’t say yes or no, just touches and she gasps anticipating, but it’s just his hand, sliding between her legs, searching in a gesture that mirrored hers scant seconds earlier.

Yes, this turns me on, she thinks at him. Her less tactful partners had wondered if this was part of her mutant abnormalities. She'd always blown that off as the usual rank prejudice, but the truth was there was some relation if not a direct one. Sometimes the noise in her head was too great, too loud, too constant. A warm body should be enough, but sometimes, she needs...more.

Her breath hitches again when she hears the hum of the rod. The first strike on her ass is light, but the expectation increases the sensation: a sting accompanied by a deeper sting. 

The first impact is almost negligible, Cassandra thinks after it passes. The electric shock leaves more of a bite. It’s not supposed to be like that.

But it’s just the first strike, so she cuts Dredd some slack. The second is better, the sting is sharper, but it’s still overshadowed by the electric shock. It’s the shock that leaves the lasting burn.

He finds his footing with the third strike. It’s almost all snap, and she grunts, arching her back. The sting leaving a throb that peels off to a delicious burn. The fourth is even better, she feels she’s vibrating inside from it, reminds herself to control her breathing.

He switches to her other ass cheek. He must have increased the setting because the charge seems to go down to her bones, but he’d caught the subtlety of it somehow, that the charge shouldn’t overpower the strike. The strikes are stronger and she’s biting on her hand to keep quiet. It’s been so long, she’s lost count of the strikes. There’s only the force of the impact, the piercing of the sting, and the shock that spreads across her mind with a shimmer.

He stops and she lets out a groan. She’s breathing heavily, the tension within her is intolerable.

“Please,” she whispers in cracked voice. His hand is back between her legs, finding her sopping wet, arousal dripping down her thighs. She thinks she’s dying every minute he’s not inside her.

He pushes lightly and she lets herself shift onto her back, aching skin on her ass protesting, but she doesn’t care. She gulps air and spreads her legs, waiting for him to enter her.

But he doesn’t, instead it’s his mouth between her legs, she writhes all the same. Her fingers dig into his scalp as his tongue swirls across her clit. One hand pushes at her hip while the other finger fucks her. Stupid incoherent things are falling from her lips as she reaches for her orgasm and it’s a flash of neon at the sides of her vision, body trembling at the onslaught. He slides over her then, entering her, fingers teasingly around her sensitized clit and she’s gone again. She’s still shuddering when she feels him come.

Afterwards, she feels too dazed to stumble up. But it’s an implicit part of the agreement, so she closes her eyes and pushes herself up. Two more breaths and she’s slipping her clothes back on, feeling centered enough to finally get a decent night's sleep. Tomorrow there'd be answers, she tells herself. 


End file.
